Capture
by Soulreciever
Summary: Just his name, but pitched in the way that he knows Sherlock knows is meant as warning of what continuing on a path of oblique statements might bring.  Hunting sequal. Slash, OC, AU, angst
1. A begining

Capture.

1. A beginning.

T: I've been reading a great deal of 'Doyle Verse' fic in the last week and stumbled onto a little hidden well of inspiration that's bubbled out into this! Follows directly on from Hunting and I really would recommend reading that before this otherwise you're going to be pretty lost! Slash, angst, fluff, serious AU, smatterings of OCs and potential spoilers for everything from The Great Game backwards. Double read though I apologise in advance if I miss anything, I've not the greatest spell checker in the world, plus I have a tendency to interpose words here and there! I own only the aforementioned OCs; everything else belongs to the BBC/Mark Gatiss/Steven Moffett/ Sir Arthur.

X

Sherlock moves with his usual sense of purpose and there's a glimmer in his eyes that all but screams that he's working through a wonderfully juicy puzzle. So he can be forgiven for simply trotting along as swiftly as his gammy leg will allow and for biting against the desperate want to ask for a moment to clarify…well basically the last half an hour.

Ok so he'd kissed him back, actually, no, 'kiss' was far too simple a word to wrap around the incident at the fort, but now it was literally as though they'd cycled back to where they'd been Before, which is weird, most especially now that the levity of the kiss is wearing off and his head's focused back onto the revelation he'd been afforded on the journey down.

He half wishes he'd not allowed himself to be caught into the shear elation of seeing Sherlock again, that he'd been sharp and angry with the younger man because it would have given him some time.

Not that he's all to certain what he would have done with that time, or if it really would have helped in the least, but…

Which is why he'd decided not to push, to let Sherlock frame an explanation about the entire matter as though it was little more than another string of deductive leaps…

…or maybe until his hormones get the better of his rationality.

He snorts a nervous sort of laugh at that particular mental image and Sherlock glances at him from the corner of his eye before enquiring,

"Do we want three tickets or is Patterson making his own way home?"

He registers first that they've somehow managed to reach the train station and work their way right to the front of a rather long line without his actually realising and the seemingly spontaneous question but a moment later.

Of course he knows Sherlock well enough to realise that it's anything but and has simply to raise his eye brows for the younger man to state,

"Once you chased my trail here to Sussex it will have been very obvious to Mycroft that I was using Irene as my intermediary. As finding her would require a knowledge of her condition and as it is not a thing so easily explained it would make sense that Patterson 'came along for the ride'. This means that he shall have seen Michale and will, in turn, have been convinced to stay in order to 'clear the air'."

He knows that Sherlock has to be right, he's using that matter of fact tone of voice he always has when he's feeling 100% certain of himself and thus ridiculously smug, after all.

However…

However when he'd text Guthrie at some stupid hour of the morning the other had made no mention of staying, indeed he'd given the impression of already being happily ensconced back in London.

"Hm then either Irene has gotten cold feet or Patterson got angry enough to simply want it all over and done with..." It's thinking out loud, of course, this proved all of a moment later as he pulls their tickets from the machine and states, "Platform two," before he's striding off again.

They find a spot at the very back of a stupidly cramped carriage and, though he's very aware that he's likely going to spend the next hour stood on already aching legs, he feels a great deal more 'at home' than he had on the ride down.

"Something is troubling you," The statement is somewhat expected given that Sherlock looks entirely as though he has fallen asleep propped in the corner and he all but glares at the younger man as he states,

"Seriously, you've not even got your eyes open."

"Yes but I had them open earlier and noted how you were deliberately pacing your gate, as well as how clearly distracted you were by some internal thought or another."

Which means he'd prod and prod until he found some entirely un-thought of cause for this distraction and likely make things ten times worse. Which is why, in turn, he simply goes for blunt honesty.

"You've been lying to me from the very start." It's angry rather than hurt which is something, though he'd much rather it'd managed to stay completely emotionless because then he wouldn't be getting sympathetic looks from the spotty teenager crushed in a few inches from Sherlock's other side.

A long, dreadful, pause as Sherlock likely sorts through the multitude of small little half truths he's told over the period of their…friendship…then,

"Mother felt that I was still too young to be handling that sort of money when it first came my way and by the time she deemed me 'responsible' I'd gotten onto the cocaine."

"You mean you spent it?"

"Ha, god no, Mycroft stashed it away in some ridiculously high security savings account as incentive for me to get clean and there it stayed until last month." He's pretty certain that he'd have spotted drug use even in Sherlock and the trust has likely not been touched because the younger man had simply forgotten about it, which prompts the question of,

"What happened last month?"

"Our well dressed Irish friend took a stroll about Europe and I decided to go along for the ride."

Moriaty, of course, though it's a little strange for Sherlock to be so very aware of listening ears, which has him asking,

"Did you return together?"

"Alas no, he got quite caught up in some thing or another while we were in Switzerland. He was, however, kind enough to introduce me to a friend of his whom gladly took up the mantle of travelling companion."

Which means he's been incapacitated, likely killed if the stand off at the pool is any indication of how things go whenever the two are in one place together and that there's someone new chasing after Sherlock hoping to avenge the Psychopath.

"Is that what this has been all about?" Which sort of spills from him before he can catch it.

Sherlock half opens his eyes a moment later, affords him the strangest of looks, and then simply goes back to pretending to be napping.

"Who'd you go as?" The question is mostly about edging the conversation away from the more dangerous areas, though he is also somewhat curious to know just how his flatmate had managed the 'peep' Irene had so very casually mentioned.

"Emmitt Kelly." It's a somewhat random name that he feels he should know and it cycles through his head in that really annoying way for what seems forever, then suddenly it clicks,

"The Hobo?"

"Hobo clown, though I suppose the distinction is not truly necessary."

"Amazing," Which he really does mean because the tramp had been a good foot and a half shorter than the younger man, which would have meant long periods of time stooped over, plus there was the matter of the contact lenses he must have been wearing in order to change his eye colour, not to mention the facial hair and the smell

The smug smile wonders back into place on the other's lips and he's feeling more confident of himself, a man on safer ground, until Sherlock's phone kicks, randomly, into life.

"Hello…ah and how did that…right so you want me to…yep ok, got you." It's calm, as though he's simply being informed of some erroneous piece of information or another, which makes the statement of, "I shall be taking a detour to the New Scotland Yard," all the more curious.

"Right and why aren't you excited? I mean it's a case, right?"

"Yes and no."

"Sherlock," Just his name, but pitched in the way that he knows Sherlock knows is meant as warning of what continuing on a path of oblique statements might bring…not that he'd ever raised a hand against the younger man, no matter how hard the temptation on occasion, but they were both of them very aware that given the right motivation…

Which is why it is of little surprise when, all of a breath after his admonishment, the younger man states simply, "Paterson is in jail."

X

T: I'm trying to work a good chapter ahead as with Hunting so I'll set a Tuesday update regime and let you know of any wobbles down the line! Oh and I'd appreciate a review, though a watch is fine if you're shy!


	2. A message

2. A message.

T: An additional warning of my sneaking in Doyle verse cases as of this chapter! Other than this everything stays as was! I still own only the modern verse adaptation of Guthrie and bits of the plot!

X

Lestrade greats Sherlock with his usual mix of friendliness and suspicion, which means he'd already been filled in on the whole fake death thing and he can't help being just a little curious as to when and how that knowledge had come his way.

Though right now there's another, more pressing, question that needs answering, one that Sherlock gets right into the heart of with the statement of

"You agreed to explain once we were here."

"Right, yes…come to my office."

It's a fairly short journey and he knows no more than a couple of minutes must have passed between that statement and settling into the familiar stiff backed chairs, though as tense as he, the Atmosphere and even Sherlock is right now, it feels more like a hour.

"There was an anonymous tip off about an hour ago that someone had broken into one of the classy Pall Mall flats. Two constables were sent and proceeded to apprehend the suspect. One now has a broken nose and the other a hands worth of broken fingers. Needless to say that didn't go down well and constables' fellow officers had just gotten onto working out the perfect, legal, way to get some form of revenge when the call came up that he'd asked after you. Which apparently instantly made him my concern rather than theirs as far as the higher ups are concerned and has earned me several months worth of hard graft to get them back on my side." The Inspector lets out a huffed breath of frustration before stating, "Basically this better be very, _very_, good or I shall not hold myself responsible for my actions."

"It is." Sherlock responds before adding, "Can I see him?"

Social niceties are not really Sherlock's thing, not because of arrogance or simple ignorance, but rather because of the time involved in observing them. Better to tread on a few toes, wound a few prides and save a life than reach the alternative conclusion simply for the sake of said emotion and extremities.

That he would ask to see Paterson rather than simply demand or even force the thing, is, along with how…withdrawn…he seems despite looking precisely as he always had, settles a chill in his stomach.

Lestrade clearly feels the same way for, face now considerably whiter than before, he states, "I'll go and fetch him myself, " before moving, with less enthusiasm and smoothness than is usual, towards the door.

Silence and he almost thinks to start some sort of conversation, or at least chatter away to himself on a randomly inane subject, but thinks better of it as he catches how tightly Sherlock has pressed his lips together.

Now, more than ever, this feels like the instant before a breech, all focused intensity and calm before the explosion and the shear rush of…everything…that follows.

Guthrie is a few steps in front of the inspector, dressed still in the clothes he'd worn on the journey down to Shoreham, though they are torn a little for the exertion of the fight and dotted with spots of blood which, for the spatter alone, clearly originate from another.

"It's not helping," Sherlock remarks as the other man settles into one of the two chairs opposite their own.

"Maybe not, but it's certainly better than the alternative." He pauses, flashes him a tired smile, before stating, "Though I am sorry you got dragged into this as well, Dr."

"You know one another then."

"Ha and you say that policemen are idiots, Sherlock!"

A warning flicker of…something…crosses Sherlock's face as he states, "Enough," before he adds, "He's my brother in law, inspector."

"Your…you know it's frightening how normal this is compared to some of the surprises you've levied on me over the years." Lestrade remarks before enquiring, "So as you know I'm sure as hell not turning a blind eye just because he's 'family, can I ask _why_ you're here?"

"Because Patterson has been set up, though it may take a little longer to deduce by whom and for what purpose."

"Set up? For gods sake Sherlock he was found at the scene and his prints are all over the place."

"Yes, because he lives there."

And just like that it all makes sense, because Mycroft would never have allowed the police to be called out, let alone lock Guthrie up. Which means something has happened to the elder Holmes sibling, which is likely why the ex-reporter is still so very angry and why Sherlock was being so…odd…

He can see the self same thoughts working their way through Lestrade's head; can see the inspector's entire demeanour soften into something a great deal more amiable.

"It seems we've been labouring under a misapprehension, Mr Holmes. I'd apologise but you really did do a number on my men."

"I was angry and I'd rather 'Guthrie', if you'd be so kind."

"Of course, if you could tell us what happened?"

"Mycroft phoned me at about eight the evening previous, he sounded a little tired but I just put it down to things finally catching up to him. He was just trying to needle me into…something…when he go interrupted by the house phone and cut things short, all the while promising to call me back again within the hour. When that call never came I got nervy because time keeping is something Mycroft takes seriously and phoned the house; then the office and then, out of desperation, the other PA's. At which point I was told he was at home, had been as such since about 7 and that as far as they'd been aware he'd 'powered down' for the night."

"Yes, yes, I think that's enough padding, can you describe how you found the flat when you arrived?"

"Better, I can show you." Sherlock raises his eyebrow a fraction of an inch and, smiling another half hearted smile the ex-reporter states, "I know how you work, Sherlock and the second I realised I'd stumbled onto a crime scene I got a whole ream of snaps with my mobile."

Steel grey eyes snap onto Lestrade and, with a long suffering sigh, the inspector states, "Somehow I thought we might end out here," as he produces a small plastic bag from out under the table with the explanation of, "Personal affects."

A blink of an eye and Sherlock is clutching the slim outline of a top spec blackberry, brows creased in concentration.

"Two cups, which means he had a guest, though not one he cared for if his crockery choice is anything to go by. There was a long conversation, one that agitated Mycroft enough that he started to pace and then the sedatives that had been slipped into his drink took affect. His guest then took deliberate care to make it seem as though someone was 'casing' the flat, made two calls, one of which was, supposedly, the tip off that alerted your men to matters, the other for the friend who assisted him in transporting Mycroft out of the flat. Kidnap for ransom does not seem likely given the need for this call and so that leaves us with two options. He has been taken to be tortured for information or he has been taken, killed and hidden in order that the individuals involved might escape."

With all the facts in hand option number two certainly seems the most likely, after all what better way to really make certain that you've got a healthy lead on the police than to have them investigate a crime that never actually happened?

Indeed it seems very likely that the 'robbery' had, indeed, been a trap to place Guthrie into jail and thus insure that Sherlock would also be distracted, if only for the shortest amount of time.

He knows his…friend…would be able to see all of this, knows that he is more than simply a brain with legs no matter the popular opinion to the contrary and yet…

To look at Sherlock one would be forgiven in thinking that this is another case involving a complete stranger, for other than an edge of…something…in the way the younger man is holding himself, he seems entirely as always.

Eyes focused so intently on his companion he can not miss the tightening of fingers that precedes the enquiry of, "What about this?"

With one deft movement he slides Guthrie's phone into the centre of the table and gestures towards the image of a line of 'dancing' stickmen drawn in a swift, almost childlike, manner.

"Oh, it was forwarded to me a few weeks back in one of those annoying chain texts. I kept it because it was…interesting…I guess."

"Did you show it to Mycroft?"

"Yes, but why is that relevant?"

"Because there is a message hidden in that image, one that was clearly intended to reach my brother's eyes and may well lend us an insight into the identity of at least one of the individuals there that night."

Since the matter with the Chinese smugglers he has started to suspect coded messages in every spray tag, every cheep restroom limerick and, in the hope of satiating that particular paranoia before it started to affect his sanity, he'd taken out a ream of textbooks on the subject of how best to interpret them. Not that it's any sort of help with just one message to refer to and how the heck did Sherlock even know that there _was _a message? Unless,

"You've seen this code before, haven't you?"

"Yes, in a very old case that I'd almost forgotten until today."

"So you know what it says?"

"Indeed." Sherlock responds before snatching the mobile back off the table and stating, "'Forget what you were told. L'"

X

T: Technically BBC verse have already been there with 'The case of the dancing men' thanks to the spray painting 'fun' of 'The Blind Banker' but I really couldn't go another fic without a more literal nod to one of my favourite Doyle verse cases, plus it's an innocent enough code that you can believe someone would keep it stashed away just because! I promise that I'll try not to end next weeks chapter on a cliff hanger and until then feel free to ask for more info on anything making you '?'


	3. A fresh set of eyes

3. A fresh set of eyes.

T: In which warnings remain the same and I still own only these particular 'modern verse' takes on: Paterson Guthrie, Irene Adler, and Sherrinford Holmes.

X

A merest breath and Sherlock had been discussing terms of bale, making clearly empty promises to keep Lestrade abridged of the situation and calling for a taxi as Guthrie worked his way through the paperwork.

He's swiftly ensconced behind the laptop once they're back at the flat, his taught posture a clear warning signal that he currently has no want to talk.

So he makes tea, because it's something to do and gets their guest talking about light, harmless, things because he can recognise a state of shock even when masked with anger.

At some point Sherlock goes out, their front door slamming behind him with such a force that it stops the conversation dead in its tracks.

"You know I think I almost preferred it when he wasn't here." He remarks as he gathers up their cups and deposits them, firmly, into the sink.

"No you didn't." A beat then, "I really am sorry about all of this, Dr."

"John, please and it's not as though you wanted…this…to happen."

"Still this isn't exactly the best sort of time to be having an extra person to worry about." Another short pause and then, "I still can't quite get my head around it. I mean he was…damn it!"

A loud bang draws him back out into the living room and the sight of Guthrie curled tight on himself.

Wordlessly he crosses the distance between them and, picking up the other's now slightly scuffed Blackberry, tries to project an aura of calm.

Two long minutes then one hand snakes out to grab the phone back before Guthrie states, "Sherlock's right, of course and my getting this angry isn't helping anything; it's just that the second I think about it for too long…"

"Bad headspace?"

"Yeh…something like that…I don't suppose you feel inclined to slip me something a little stronger than tea, do you?"

"Brandy?"

"Perfect."

Two swift slugs later the tension seems to dissipate a little from the other's back and, gesturing to the door, he states,

"You know it's going to be twice as bad for him, he knows how people are at their worst and his heads so plugged up with that knowing that he'll have thought of things that'd make you want to claw your brains out and worse."

"So, what, he's stormed off so that he can go get high and perhaps be a normal person for once?"

"No, he knows how Mycroft felt about him running away in that sort of manner and given…given how things are likely to pan out…" Another swift slug and then, "Plus he's had a bit of a positive influence pressed on him since then."

"Mmm, so everyone keeps saying."

"But you don't buy it."

"No, because he seems exactly as he always has…in-fact he's gotten more and more Sherlock like with every passing month."

"I'm afraid that's a good thing, John, because it means he's not trying to be someone else for you anymore. As to the other, I know that the Sherlock you met back at St Bart's would have just broken me out of my holding cell rather than at least make the effort of 'doing the right thing'; that he basically lived on coffee and nicotine; and that he's only taken his thinking out of the flat because he thinks you're watching him and waiting for 'the penny to drop', as it were."

It seems ludicrous that he might hold such an influence over the younger man, most especially given the current state of matters between them and yet he can not quite help but entertain the idea.

He knows that he's likely smiling at that thought, that Guthrie shall see that smile and know it for what it is, but, to be honest, he couldn't care less. Because not only has he spent the entirety of his knowing Sherlock with people making assumptions about their relationship, but also Guthrie really isn't the sort of person to needle unless there's need for it.

"I thought he'd gone to actually look over your flat himself."

"Oh he'll sling that into it, but mainly he'll be letting his head whirl over for a while, because there's no way he's getting any further right now without me."

"Oh?"

"Power brings with it many enemies, Mycroft understood that very well and understood even better how those enemies would royally abuse any week point they found. Thus he's never made our marriage or even our relationship a public thing and certainly never discussed our living together to anyone outside of the select few. There's also the fact that whoever set me up knew it'd bring Sherlock in and thus that not only was he not dead, as was the common thought at the time, but also that he considered me worthy of his time."

"Right, so one of that 'select few' is a spy and you're going to help Sherlock narrow down who that person is, how, precisely?"

"Because Mycroft always knows when someone is spying on him, or when someone might be pushed into doing as such and has always made certain that I know as well in order that I might 'accidentally' leave entirely fake documentation within their sight, or manipulate them into being a double agent if we should so require."

"You know that makes far more sense than it should. Great, I'm officially tainted." The remark earns him a shaky, though entirely genuine smile and, warm for the pride of a job well done, he enquires, "I'm guessing you keep an up to date list of all the candidates on your phone, right, but then doesn't that mean Sherlock's likely already seen it?"

"Paranoia is a thing that transfers fast, John, so no, the list's not on my mobile, but tucked away on a micro SD card which is, in turn, camouflaged under this button." He taps one of the beautifully decorated buttons which adorn the suit jacket tossed over the back of his chair and, expression again guttering into something hollow, he adds, "All these years I kept telling myself off for letting him get to me, for giving in to every utterly ludicrous or hurtful request and now…"

Of course he knows that, sooner or later, they shall have to deal with the reality of what they are likely to find at the end of this particular trail and yet he is also aware that there is still the other outcome there as an impossible hope.

He has lived, first hand, with just how very powerful hope can be. Has lived existing on the belief that somehow things would come good and so he refreshes Guthrie's glass and enquires,

"I don't suppose you fancy telling me just what Michale did to make you so very angry?"

For a beet more the ex-journalist's face remains empty, then a clear wash of frustration which he vocalises with a long, drawn, sigh, before he responds,

"He befriended me, used everything he learned through that friendship to make me fall madly in love with Irene and then used the trust instilled in that attachment to push me towards Mycroft."

"Why?"

"Because he thought I'd tell Mycroft about what Sherrinford was doing to Sherlock and that he'd stop everything before Sherlock ended out being pushed too far."

He's about to ask why Michale would still help Sherrinford if he'd learned that the eldest Holmes brother intended to kill him and then he realises that he'd been told the answer already.

Not in words, but with the devotion there in the voice of Michale's 'other self' as she'd talked of him. A powerful, unrelenting, attachment, the mirror of which had bled its way into his own heart the day he'd levelled his service weapon at the head of an unarmed man and fired all for the sake of Sherlock's continued existence.

"For all that he thinks himself walking his brother's shadow, John, Sherlock would never raise a hand to hurt you."

He'd ask how Guthrie had known to just where his head had turned itself and yet he knows that there is no point in doing as such, knows that he is too tired to try so very hard in guarding his emotions. Thus he asks, instead, the much more important thing of,

"How can you know that?"

"Because he looks at you the way Mycroft has always looked at me, as though you are the strangest and most precious thing to exist on this earth."

Hot, desperate, anxiety sparks in his belly and, feeling for all intense purposes, as some teenager caught up in some school yard flirtation, he shuffles forward a little in his seat with the express intention of asking for firmer evidence of this 'look'.

An intent that dies but a breath later as the front door clicks closed and Sherlock's unmistakable tread begins its assent up the stairs.

X

T: This chapter I found myself at last happy for establishing Guthrie quite far back in the canon of these stories because it meant he had a pretty good sight of who Sherlock was Before and After John, which, in turn, mean that he was a great way to ratchet things up a little between the Detective and our Good Dr. Not, of course, that we'll see the pay off for that just yet as there's the little matter of a kidnapped/potentially murdered Mycroft to deal with, but…

Two extra points on the 'Irene/Guthrie' back story:

. Irene is the 'lovely lady' Guthrie talks about back when he's giving his own back story in Hunting.

. I imagine that some of Guthrie's feelings for Irene still linger in the way that 'heart break' invariably does. Thus his inability to hate her along with her 'other self'.

Oh and the slight hole of Mycroft being paranoid enough to keep lists and then announce his marriage to potential spies shall be explained next chapter!


	4. A mistake

4. A mistake. 

T: Another cliff-hanger on the horizon…apparently they are becoming a thing of habit. Sorry all. Anyway on a disclaimer note I still own only these modern verse takes on: Irene Adler, Sherrinford Holmes and Paterson Guthrie. Oh and the plot. Warning for a brief mention of a torture situation + smothering, otherwise we're pretty well on the same level as last chapter.

X

Sherlock looks for all the world like a blood hound hot on the scent as he clatters back into the flat and he almost allows himself to be fooled into thinking that this means the younger man has changed his mind. That with further investigation he has concluded that they are not, in-fact, searching for the location of his brother's corpse, but rather his likely bruised, yet still vital, body.

Yet as he watches his flatmate swiftly absorbing the small details of their activities since his departure, he realises that, actually, the expression is more for adrenaline rush than Sherlock's usual glee in the hunt…

…realises that the excitement that sweeps the skin of his cheek as a flush of high colour, does not quite reach the ever changing kaleidoscope of his eyes.

"Hm, well I need your head at its clearest, Paterson and so I think, perhaps, that tea is in order." Of course he doesn't ask directly but something in the younger man's voice suggests that he'd better be the one to make the aforementioned tea if he wanted to avoid a later ear bashing about getting 'helpful elements' of the case half way towards blind drunkenness.

So he makes tea, which Sherlock snatches from him the instant he's back in the room and that Guthrie drinks without hesitation likely because he's well aware it's the path of least resistance.

It takes a further pot and a space of time where all the liquid Guthrie's consumed, along with the tea's diuretic affect, combine to the inevitable, for Sherlock to apparently deem the situation stable enough to enquire,

"If I run through a description of the individual who Mycroft invited into the apartment would you be able to give me a name?"

A firm nod of the head and, eyes sliding closed, Sherlock states,

"Six foot in height, with a habit of walking with a slight in-turn of the left leg, a smoker despite claiming otherwise and quite possibly red headed, though that might yet turn out to be his accomplice." The barest hint of a firming of his lip and then, "As to personality, I would say he is likely highly arrogant, that he believes himself always 'the better man', but in truth is little more than a bully."

"Melas...Christopher Melas…he's an interpreter, though you'd think he was the prime minister himself for the way he acts." A moment as Guthrie rescues the micro SD from its hiding place and clicks it, firmly, into his blackberry. "Hm…Mycroft only flagged him last month…let's see…'a man who would not think twice about selling his own mother if the price was right,' huh, clearly no love loss there then."

A smile of pride for being proved right in his deductions once again, Sherlock snatches up the blackberry and announces, "Interesting, he recently moved into an ostentatious property on Wilton Street that he most certainly should not be able to afford on his income."

Anger bleeds then into Guthrie's face and he mumbles, "blood money," under his breath before he brushes his hands hard through his hair and announces, "Right so I'm going to go try and get some sleep. Promise you'll wake me when there's news," before gaining his feet and retreating up to Sherlock's little used bedroom.

A beat, then he enquires, "He's sneaking out of your window as we speak, isn't he?"

"Undoubtedly."

"So how much of a lead are we giving him?"

A long look that has him feeling nervous and then Sherlock responds, "_I_ shall be giving him two minutes more, in order to assure that he feels at least some way safe and then I shall take the slightly longer rout around."

Anger and he's just breathing in to tell Sherlock he's being foolish, that he's damn well coming no matter how dangerous it might be, because that's what he does…what he's always done…when he's caught in an unrelenting wave of vertigo.

"You drugged my tea." It's a statement rather than a question and he catches the faintest edge of guilt in the younger man's eyes before he moves his gaze somewhere else and responds,

"I do not expect you to forgive me, John, even if I am genuinely sorry for abusing your trust this way, but I would hope that you at least understand _why_ I'm doing it."

His last thought, before he collapses at last into Sherlock's waiting arms, is that this is likely the closest he shall ever come to a confession and how he really had to work on the younger man's timing.

O

The most logical rout keeps slipping into his field of vision at each detour, bright blue as though he's walking the thing through virtually on Google Maps. It's hard not to steer back onto that line, to take the alleyways and rooftops that he knows will shave a good five minutes from the journey and get there before Guthrie has even reached Park Lane. However, he knows that the suspect will not talk for free and that he has to let his brother-in-law get to the man first in order to make it clear that, on this occasion, the price for his secrets is being alive at the end.

Ten minutes...yes that seemed about reasonable…left, right, forth exit, onto the rooftops at Grovesnor Place, down again at the Irish embassy, through the side door there which Kay always leaves unlocked for you and round into Wilton st.

Number 6, which looks precisely as its neighbors apart from the light brown of the door…Hmm, no lights…but then Paterson is too cleaver for mistakes like that no matter if he was still holding to the notion that he could somehow change Mycroft for the better.

Not locked...which is as disappointing as it is time saving...boxes tumbled about the hall, some half filled with the same sort of expensive, ugly, ornaments that are scattered here and there on 'executive chique' furniture…soft footfalls somewhere overhead, the patter constant enough that it can only be Guthrie and then a scream, muffled to the point that it is almost obsolete, by some form of large, malleable, object.

He's up the stairs and prying the chincy, silken, throw cushion out of Guthrie's hands with a speed that he's somewhat impressed with and that has his lungs suddenly forcefully reminding him that, as a reformed smoker, they've lost a little of their previous 'vitality'.

"God damn it Sherlock, why chose now to get all moral on me?"

"Because this is the wrong way of coping, Paterson, and you know it."

His brother-in-law responds by violently throwing his hands into the air and, with a dramatic flourish that would, in lighter circumstances, be somewhat amusing, swoops out into the hall.

"Now then, Mr. Melas, the location of the body, if you would be so kind."

Frightened eyes flick towards the hallway door and then onto his face before the other states,

"There isn't a body, not yet at least." He's not lying, which has him hopeful for the first time since this little nightmare began, but that it's the truth doesn't make any sense given what he knows at the moment.

"Might I ask why?"

"You damn well know why." Ah, pride and the omniscience reputation that he was swiftly cultivating thanks to John's melodramatic retelling of their 'adventures' in his blog. Still pride was something he could work with and, shrugging, he states,

"I fear you have the advantage, Mr. Melas."

A smile, lizard like for all it's warmth, then,

"You're older brother's gotten so paranoid about everything that he's trained himself a body double, one so good even I thought he was the real deal until yesterday evening"

Of course he's curious as to just what Mycroft has learned to make the knowledge of his whereabouts valuable enough to keep Melas from killing a man who has so slighted his precious pride, however, he's also very aware of how fragile this whole thing is.

Because, sooner or later, someone is going to realize that if Mycroft really was as paranoid as his supposed doppelganger was claiming then surely that doppelganger would have holes in his knowledge, places where Mycroft was unwilling to let _anyone_ in.

So he asks, "Where are they keeping him?" in the tone of voice that suggests not answering will mean that he shall step away and let Guthrie get 'back to business'.

An hour later the satisfying sound of a lock clicking open and, making a gesture for silence that Paterson responds to with a roll of the eyes, he slips into the cavernous expanse beyond.

It is a setting he has seen many times on the modern crime dramas John's so very fond of, a clique given life…substance…and yet still he finds the hairs at the back of his neck rising.

He moves a slow, steady, square about the area, taking in the signs of frequent occupancy, cataloguing the contents of each crate as he comes upon it and, when he is certain that they are, for the moment, 'safe' steps out into the centre.

Mycroft is tied tight to a chair, his exposed torso a mottled mass of bruises, cuts and burns. For the moment, though, he is filtering this out, filtering out also the mirroring signs of abuse there on his face, and focusing on the rise and fall of his chest.

He's never been so very glad to be proven wrong.

"Given the current pain signals it seems likely that at least two of my ribs have been broken, though I'm somewhat hopeful that your Dr. can dispel this belief, there really is no time for 'bed rest' at the moment, after all."

He's recognized his footsteps, of course and his glib tone suggests the putting on of a 'brave face' that is as much irritating as it is settling. For his brother can not be so very hurt if he's still clinging to the belief that he needs to be some unbreakable thing so as to protect him from the darkness of the world.

Illogical, of course, given everything and yet it seems they have, the both of them, resorted to ignoring The Past in the hopes that this shall, somehow, make it simply disappear.

Still there is something unsettling about the restraint that has been shown in the 'torture' his brother has undergone, for surely they would want him talking as swiftly as possible in order that they might catch the 'real' Mycroft before he had chance to leak whatever secret lay at the heart of this entire affair.

So, as he works gently at breaking the cable ties that secure his brother's wrists to the chair, he enquires,

"This is some form of trap, isn't it?"

"Indeed, though not one that shall prove successful, I am glad to say."

Meaning that they are not set to be jumped upon at any given moment, though something still does not feel right and, in a bright and terrible flash of realization, he enquires,

"They want John, don't they?"

X

T: Yes I did sit on Google maps researching for a good place to home Mr. Melas and, subsequently, researching how long a journey from the nearest underground station (Victoria) would take to get out to the Millwall docks using Transport for London. Oh and Mr. Melas is a Doyle Verse client who features in 'The Greek Interpreter' which is the first case in which Mycroft appears and what I'm sort of playing with in the background of this fic!


	5. A denouement

5. A dénouement.

T: Another cliff-hanger, though this time it's intentional. An additional warning of 'acting like I know what I'm on about' in the context of military campaigns oh and a bit of course language. Otherwise I'm pretty confident we're as we were in chapter 3. I own only random modern verse takes on certain characters and the plot.

X

His mouth feels perversely dry and, combined with the unrelenting bitter edge lurking on his taste buds, makes it likely that Sherlock had slipped him Zopiclone.

Glad, at least, for the choice of an over the counter sleeping drug rather than any of the many variants of sedatives he's certain his flatmate could whip up in the barest of moments, he shuffles, stiffly, to his feat.

A glance at his phone tells him it's too late to even consider chasing after Sherlock, that the younger man is likely now far from Mr. Melas and any form of safety…which is the main reason he resists the urge to text him, the rest the tangled confusion of just what he'd say and what sort of tone he'd use to say it.

He's still justifiably angry, however, he can already feel his traitorous heart making excuses for Sherlock, can feel him giving more and more slack because he 'cares'.

A growl reminds him that he's not eaten since breakfast and he's working his way through his phonebook in search for something tasty; greasy and all together bad for him when he notices it.

An inferred dot, all but crimson against the cream of his jumper, stilled precisely at his thorax and thus, in turn, his heart.

The all too familiar wave of terror, of knowing that could well be dead in but a matter of breaths and the strange sense of relief that, this time at least, there are no explosives between the bullet and its intended target.

His phone buzzes in his hand, number withheld, of course and as he answers a voice straight from his nightmares remarks,

"I knew I would be able to rely upon you, Watson"

"_Sebastian?_" He knows it should be impossible, knows the man had been in a bed all of a stones throw from his own as they'd worked at getting the bullet from his shoulder and had seen, first hand, what the IED had done to him and yet…

If there was such a thing as hell then Sebastian Moran was the sort of man that'd be spat back up from its volcanic depths.

"Sorry it took so long for me to come and say hello, old chap, but you know how life can be." He sounds still, calm…dangerous….just like he did in desert and his body is reacting to that, fingers stretching for the weapon he knows is locked tight in his top draw.

"Now that's no way to treat an old friend, is it, John?"

"What do you want?" Because it can only be Moran at the other end of the sniper rifle, not only because the timing of the call is too precise to be pawned off simply as co-incidence, but also because the sniper rifle has always been Moran's weapon of choice.

"I _want_ a thousand things, _John Watson_…my own legs, to be able to take a piss like a normal human being and you dead at my feat. Still, I'll settle for you knowing that you're going to be the reason everyone learns to hate the name 'Sherlock Holmes'."

Moran wants him dead because, what seems a life time ago, he'd taken a midnight walk about the compound as had long been his habit and caught Moran beating a civilian to death. He'd cried self defence and his influence in the compound had led to a demotion rather than the expulsion as he'd deserved…a demotion that'd lead to Moran being placed onto patrol and thus, in turn, his setting off the IED that should have ended his life.

A matter of pride, just as with everything the man has pursued with any form of conviction…the want to destroy, Sherlock, however…

"Oh, of course, I've skipped a bit of the story, how rude of me!" A beat then, "There I was, high on morphine, basically counting away the hours until I had to 'pay for my sins' then I'm being whisked away onto a fancy ass helicopter and hooked up with this crazy old man who's this crazy medical genius. He grew me a set of legs from nothing other than a skin cell…real science fiction stuff…and all at no cost because I'd managed to get me a sponsor."

It is a term he recognises from 'a study in pink' and, already pretty certain of the answer, he enquires,

"You worked for Moriaty?"

"Actually I worked _with _him, but you have the general gist." Another pause, this time accompanied by the background edge of a ringing phone, then, "Anyway, that's enough playing. Time to get down to business, wouldn't you say, Mr Holmes?"

"You missed a calling, Moran; such a refined use of slight of hand belongs in Vegas, after all."

Echoed, thanks to feedback loops and a handful of other technical things that he's not really 'up' on, but that he knows means Moran's using another phone to talk to Sherlock with rather than bothering with some form of conference call set up.

He registers next how Sherlock sounds, the same tone of voice he uses when Anderson has said something he views as particularly annoying and not at all as though he's aware of just what Moran is doing.

It's something the other picks up also for, but a moment after he's noted all of this, he enquires,

"You understand the situation entirely, yes?"

"Almost…you have Dr. Watson with you, likely under some form of restraint, and intend to use him as bargaining chip. I also understand _what_ it is you intend to barter from me and yet what I don't get is why all of this? Why not simply threaten me directly?"

His surname and still that un-attached, slightly aggravated, hint to his voice and yet why if the younger man really had meant what he'd thought he'd meant by that last passing comment?

"Because that'd play into your hands, turn the game to your advantage and you'd press that until death would seem as the better option. Jim saw that, saw also that the better way to get to you was through the things you cared about and yet he never followed through with that understanding. I've learned from the mistake."

"Your terms?"

"You hand yourself into the police, tell them you were Latimer's murderer, that you killed him because he was blackmailing you. Of course they'll think it a ploy to begin with and they'll investigate…find the nice little trail I left them tying Latimer to a certain Sherrinford Holmes, at which point it'll be but the work of hours for them to get their motive."

There are patches of information missing still…but they're little more than the slices of empty sky in a puzzle, something for depth and a little to keep the brain ticking. Because the moment Moran so casually mentions the eldest Holmes sibling, he understands that he _knows_ and intends to spread that knowledge.

It shouldn't be damaging, London has always held Sherlock at arms breadth, waiting for the moment when something got spun so very fast or very tight and snapped. However, the city has also always accepted that sometimes it needed someone like Sherlock there to keep the status quo, that Sherlock also had his standards…lines that even he would not cross.

London would not see that even this was a part of that, would not see that Sherlock had not killed his brother out of anger or hatred, but because it had been the only way to make certain he could never again taint an innocent life.

London would see only that he had killed, would label him 'murderer' and it would break him.

He knows that he can not allow that to happen, knows that no matter what the younger man said he was very much London's hero and so…

Mind a white haze of adrenaline and arcing sparks of rationalisation, he forms three clear words into his phone and then, without so much as a pause, steps off towards his bedroom and the gun tossed, casually, onto his bedside table.

He counts precisely three, measured, paces before his straining ears catch what sounds as a dry twig snapping underfoot and then a familiar white hot pain as the bullet lodges home.

X

T: I decided literally while typing this chapter out that Moran and John were going to be tied together, at which point a few loose ends suddenly tied themselves together without my even trying!

I feel the need to point out that British soldiers as a whole are an amazing bunch and that though you do get the occasional 'bad apple' they're not all going to be wedged into one platoon.

Zopiclone is, indeed, an over the counter sleeping drug and something Sherlock could easily have acquired at some point by simply going to a doctor and telling him about his head ticking over so fast it's literally keeping him awake! Drug in hand I can see him crushing it down so he could sprinkle it into John's tea under the mask of adding sugar!

Lastly I'm not 100% confident that a muffled sniper shot actually sounds like a snapping twig, but it's what's in my head when I think about that sound so it's where I'm going.


	6. A race against time

6. A race against time.

T: The slash at last moves itself back centre stage in this chapter and I'm afraid that there is, once again, a cliff-hanger at the end! I'm pretty certain everything else is as it was last chapter, apologies if not. I own only the plot and various modern-verse takes on characters…you'll know which!

X

It is the first he has seen genuine surprise on Mycroft's face and he copies every detail of the expression onto the erasable edge of his 'hard-drive' for later contemplation before he raises a single eyebrow as prompt for an explanation.

Mycroft's mouth presses down into a flat line, an expression of discomfort that they have both inherited from mummy and yet, despite this, his brother still responds,

"I had believed his plan flawed, had believed that he had set too high a stake on the force of your fraternal devotion and yet…"

It's the first in a long time that his brother has admitted that his care is a wanted thing, that he would much rather they were as they had been before first Sherrinford and then the drugs had placed such a wide separation between them, and it catches him so very off guard that, for the briefest of moments, his head goes entirely blank.

Then it's full again with information, new links and connections that prompt an enquiry of,

"You've learned something about Moran, something that ties him, unquestionably, to a crime?"

"Yes,"

Moran would have thought to kill Mycroft and then would have realised how short sighted that thought was. Because Moran would have seen that he would realise why Mycroft had died eventually and how hard he would have worked to bring him to justice for the sake of his brother's murder….would have seen how much more useful Mycroft could be to him alive and under threat.

Had used Mycroft's capture as a smoke screen under which he had made what might yet prove 'the winning move'.

It's a beautiful plan and, though its end result has him hot with the compulsive need to feel Moran's windpipe compressing beneath his fingers, he can not help but appreciate that beauty.

There is so much more he needs to ask his brother, pieces of the plan that he can not see without understanding the entirety of Moran's personality and, by extension, what he shall do with John now that he has him. Yet he finds that he can't quite put a shape to the questions, finds that, for the first in the longest of times, he is simply unable to focus.

It's because John is involved, of course and the understanding of just how vulnerable the older man makes him…them…is what had caused him to push so far away…what'd spawned the choice to 'die' in the hope that they both might start again and yet…

Somehow they'd become so tangled into one another's lives that separating again had proven an impossible task.

The faintest of sounds has him back in the warehouse, all tense explanation until Guthrie steps past him and gently eases Mycroft up onto his feet.

"You were taking too long." He explains, before adding, "Oh, and before you accuse me of empty heroics I made sure to call London's finest before wondering on in. So you'll want to me making tracks unless you fancy joining us in the wonderful exercise in red tape that's likely to be the rest of our night."

It's a statement born of the shear amount of relief that must currently be coursing through his brother in-laws system, as well as the bleeding out of the shock and is so very _normal _that it proves as a much needed ground for the whirlwind of his thoughts.

He knows this is also something tied into John, into the way that his body has made the older man as much dependency as the cocaine used to be, and breathing a little against helplessness that knowledge instils he enquires,

"What was the crime, Mycroft?"

A moment's careful analysis in which his brother is likely deciding if answering is, in fact, the best of choices and then a response of, "The murder of Harold Latimer," before he's being left on his own.

A breath, then he's moving; out of the warehouse, take the longer rout round to Mudchute station in order to avoid police detection; onto the first DLR train he can find.

All the while his mind is processing, cross referencing and feeding out conclusions as swiftly as it is able.

Harold Latimer…professional blackmailer…tendency to go after 'risky' prospects…suspected police informant….

He types the other's name into his phone's search engine and, as he waits for the results, he begins to theorize…

Latimer had been let into something Moran wanted hidden, either by Moran because he'd believed the other trustworthy or by someone he had placed close to Moran in order to extract that information. At some point Latimer had likely sensed an opportunity for more money, pressed his advantage and…

Ah, a police bulletin….Latimer had been shot in the head precisely twenty four hours before Guthrie had received the image of the dancing men.

The bullet recovered from the scene is from a sniper rifle…Moran wants his hands clean…actively kidnapping John is unlikely…Latimer's betrayal will have made him weary of involving another thus kidnap by a third party on Moran's behalf also highly unlikely….

Canary Warf is sliding into sight when everything suddenly slots into a clear picture of Moran crouched in one of the unoccupied flats that sit directly opposite their own, sniper rifle lent against the crook of his arm and eyes fixed onto John.

But three minutes later he's pushed into the very back of a tube train, mind swirling with some impossible way to turn a half hour journey into something that would take but a breath.

Twenty minutes precisely and his phone begins to vibrate in his jacket pocket…Moriaty's number, which of course Moran knows he's memorized and, bottling everything up as tightly as he can, he answers.

"…Time to get down to business, wouldn't you say, Mr Holmes?" A faint edge of interference…another phone, of course, one likely attaching John into the entire conversation…so Moran is show boating…good that means he might be able to push him into some form of silly mistake, or at least enough delay that he can get to John.

"You missed a calling, Moran; such a refined use of slight of hand belongs in Vegas, after all." Annoyed and as causal as he is able because he knows it's the only way to not panic John…to keep the situation as stable as is possible right now.

"You understand the situation entirely, yes?" Ah so he's mistaken the control in his tone for a lack of care, or some form of hole in his knowledge. Stupid, disappointingly so, Moran's entire plan is based on his attachment to John, after all, and as to the other…

Still it means he'd given him more credit than he was due, that for the moment the other is not aware that he is zeroing in on him with each passing second and, most importantly, that he has again a sliver of an advantage.

Maintain the illusion; keep him focused on something else and then maybe...

"Almost…you have Dr. Watson with you, likely under some form of restraint, and intend to use him as bargaining chip. I also understand _what_ it is you intend to barter from me and yet what I don't get is why all of this? Why not simply threaten me directly?" Of course it's only the truth if looked at in a certain way, yet it's enough to bolster Moran's confidence, to have him blending out the ragged edges and seeing precisely what he wants him to see.

It makes his next statement highly amusing and he has to take a moment before he can respond with the expected request for terms in an appropriately dead pan manner.

Baker Street and he's pressing his head down into the lapel of his coat in order to muffle away the sound of the crowds about him, an action that draws attention…whispers…in a city now so very afraid of every unusual action and yet as Moran begins to real off his 'demands' with the same smug little voice he's used to conduct the entirety of the conversation he knows it's been worth it.

The casual mention of Sherrinford has him freezing at the edge of the station, left foot still firmly on Marylebone road and right suspended above the threshold of Baker Street itself.

Stolen knowledge that's deliberately intended to shock, to lend Moran an 'edge', which means he's at least clever enough to believe him dangerous. It's also further grandstanding and, once the initial shock has worn away, he's smiling a little for the underlying lack of confidence it shows.

Two steps further and he can see the flat…can see John's unmistakable form shadowed in the living room window.

His posture is all fixed lines, a regression to his military past that speaks very firmly of discomfort and tells him his original prediction had been entirely 'on the money'.

A breath and he's back out on the platform, working his way down the lines and up into the building through an open window.

He's just gotten sight of Moran, tensed up about a firm wooden stock when John's voice is there at his ear shaping the sound of three words which are as complex as they are simple.

In this moment, coming from John Watson, those words make him more scared than he's ever been…make his blood run chill in his veins and the world still.

John does not always think the same way as other people and yet the choice to say such a thing at this moment is clear indication that he has also believed the deception.

Has, in that belief, decided to do a likely stupid thing and is uttering that matter of fact, "I love you," in place of a 'goodbye'.

X

T: More research using the Transport for London website and Google Earth in order to get the lay of the land right! Oh and Fun Fact! Baker St is actually divided up somewhere in the middle and not one long st as I'd always pictured in my head…made finding the Sherlock Holmes Museum a great deal of 'fun' let me tell you!


	7. A conclusion

7. A conclusion.

T: In which everything gets tied up. Warnings remain the same as in previous chapters and I still own only random modern verse adaptations of certain characters (You'll know which!)

X

His shoulder…the one that'd been bearing the brunt of basically everything since the last time he'd been shot…is a white hot agony.

Still it could have been a damn sight worse…actually, no, it _should _have been worse because Moran had never, ever, missed his shot.

Sherlock really is going to be as smug as hell after this.

Frowning a little into the floor he breaths as deeply as he can before, ever so gently, attempting to move his wounded limb.

Right, ok, so we're not trying that again until there have been many pain killers, some anti-inflammatory and some bullet removing surgery involved.

Somehow this really isn't going to help his current record at work…actually given how peeved the boss was with the bomb related time off he'd had, not to mention his supposed 'mental breakdown, it's pretty well guaranteed that he's not going to have a job to go back to….Or, in fact, as if any sane employer is ever going to risk having him on their books ever again.

Ugh, he's going to have to 'spy' on Sherlock, or worse, actually start asking the younger man for some form of wage, isn't he?

He frowns a little harder at that thought, which means he's basically making the worst sort of face for the paramedics when they make an appearance all of a minute later. Not that that makes any sort of difference to the upbeat, 'it's all going to be ok' speech they give him as they prod at his shoulder and make faces to one another where they likely think he can't see.

He's eventually loaded onto an ambulance, which is expected and carted off to a very expensive, very exclusive, clinic, which is less so. Not that he really has time to process this blip in proceedings before they've got him on an operating table and under some really good anaesthetics.

He comes back to himself in a nice little morphine haze, Guthrie lounging comfortably in the big, plush, visitors chair to his left.

He looks…better…a man who has actually experienced a good night's sleep and the wonders a long, hot, shower can wrought.

"I know I'm not, precisely, the face you wanted to see right now, but Sherlock's currently having a proper, adult, conversation with his brother."

So he's alive, which is why Guthrie looks so much better for himself, though just as to how the elder Holmes has managed the minor miracle of proving Sherlock wrong feels a long story….one he knows would be entirely lost on him right now.

So he states, "Oh god, the world's going to end," which earns him a smile and a response of,

"Hmm, I think the odds are about 50-50 right now," before the other enquires, "How do you feel?"

"All warm, cosy and entirely tweaked out on the Morphine." He smiles what feels a very slow, lopsided, smile, and then enquires, "So, how'd he do it?"

"A bullet right through the hand Moran was using to squeeze down on the trigger. Sadly the muscle reflex carried on which is why you're still hurt, but the force of impact was enough to make certain he didn't kill you." A beat then, "I've been informed that Moran is now locked up all securely waiting for an extradition to America. Apparently the ballistics from his gun match nicely to those used to kill two high end statesmen a few months back and our friends 'from across the pond' are keen to 'talk' to him about that connection."

Of course it's entirely plausible that Moran had, indeed, been responsible for the killings and yet something in Guthrie's face tells him that it's not quite the case…that Sherlock has tampered somehow to make certain that the other faces the roughest sort of justice.

He knows he should likely feel morally incensed by the knowledge and yet there is such a wealth of undercurrent attached to it that he finds himself, instead, smiling a firm, broad, smile.

It's an expression that dies as he catches how…intense…Guthrie looks now and, aware that he has now his attention the other states,

"He trusts you entirely, John."

"Then I'll just have to make certain never to betray that, won't I?"

It's simple and yet Guthrie clearly understands the wealth of undercurrent behind it, as but a moment later he's smiling once again and enquiring,

"Have you thought about writing?"

"Sorry?"

"Your current employer isn't the most understanding of men at the best of times and so it's a good bet that he's not only going to fire you but make sure no one wants to employ you ever, ever again. Of course Sherlock's likely got more than enough money left hidden around to pay for your half of the rent as well as his own, but I can't really see someone like you agreeing to that so you're going to need some form of income. I've read your blog and can see that you have a natural literary gift so I thought I'd see if you'd ever considered using that gift?"

"Not really…do you honestly think I've a gift? Sherlock's forever telling me that I'm overly romantic, dramatic and a thousand other things."

"Ha, given his love for those seedy glossy magazine stories that's practically a compliment!" A beat then, "Talk of the devil," which has him rolling, very slowly, over to face the open doorway and the man silhouetted within.

Tall and thin and looming like some obvious villain in a cheep b-movie...yet still his heart twinges a little for the sight of him, still he wants nothing more than to press himself hard into that slender torso, breath his scent deep and linger there for the rest of his existence.

Guthrie pats his hand, informs him, "it'll all work itself out somehow, John," before sliding himself up and past Sherlock without so much as a backward glance.

A tense, terrible, moment and then Sherlock is rounding the bed and crumpling into the chair, long legs folding up so that his chin can press down onto his knees.

It is a posture that speaks of deep, complicated, thoughts, a posture of deduction and calculation, which makes the weight of his eyes all the more unbearable…makes him feel as some specimen beneath a microscope.

"It was a ploy…his mentioning Sherrinford…a destabilising technique that he never would have reached for if he had truly been confident in how vulnerable you make me." It is the first he has ever heard Sherlock vocalise his eldest brother's name and the shear vulnerability in the word is odd, not simply because it's _Sherlock_ but also because the younger man's face remains still impassive.

He has to bite against asking Sherlock to fill in the small spaces left in the tale of his childhood, to give voice to all the dark, broken, edges of himself so that he might better know how to fix them…

…has to curb the dark envy that blooms in his heart as he understands that, even dead, Sherrinford will always be 'important' to Sherlock.

Not that he has to weary of Sherlock's ever observant eyes right now as they've focused out into some middle distance, his hands raised up to fit between legs and chin, fingers steepled in another tableaux of intense thought.

"All it would have taken was a second more and you would have died. You would have died and it would have been entirely needless." It's almost a whisper and, trying his level best to somehow catch those eyes again, he responds,

"That's not entirely true, is it? Because as far as I would have been concerned I'd have died protecting something that I believe in,"

A deep breath, as though he's diving deep into some unknown ocean, the open, vulnerable, statement of, "I don't deserve you," and then he's there at his bedside, bent almost double, kissing him as though his life depended on it.

O

He does a sweep of the room with his eyes and, satisfied that he's not going to be caught out, he very gently undoes his top button.

"Ha, I knew you were lying about how comfortable you were in that ridiculous get up!" It comes from directly behind him and, spinning on his axis, he enquires,

"Seriously, how do you do that?"

A look that's as close as Sherlock shall likely ever come to rolling his eyes and he finds himself, once again, explaining,

"This 'ridiculous get up' is my costume for the party...the one I've been on and on and on at you about for the last month…the one you absolutely swore you'd come to…is this ringing any bells yet?" The enquiry is greeted with the expected blank stare and throwing his hands up he states, "You know what, fine, go back to your mould or mildew or whatever the heck it is you're doing with the sink to make it smell so utterly rank. It's not as though I've just gotten my first ever novel published…no, wait, I think that's _exactly_ what it is."

At which point he secures himself back into the stiff, starched, collar of the stiff shirt he's wearing to go with the rest of the dramatic, Victorian, ensemble he's currently wearing and purposefully steps out into the hall without so much as a goodbye.

He's giving the venue's address to the taxi driver when Sherlock bundles in at his side, slender form wrapped now in a thick tweed cape that looks as though it was made for him and curls pressed down under the weight of a deerstalker constructed of precisely the same material.

At the enquiry raise of his brows the younger man presses a monocle into his right eye and states,

"You owe me."

"Fine, I'll let you bore everyone with story after story of how your amazing abilities inspired me to create Joseph Bell's character…without protest." Smiling he adds, "You look great, by the way,"

"Naturally."

X

T: I know it's a little 'action movie' to have someone shooting a trigger hand but Sherlock really wouldn't have had the time to get over to Moran before he pressed down and at least aiming there is going to do _something_ to the trajectory of the shot even if it doesn't stop it happening!

Somehow, over the years, Guthrie has started seeing Sherlock as a younger brother and has done this sort of subtle protection thing many times before. Though it's at least 25% likely that Mycroft has asked him to have a gentle word with John as far as this moment is concerned!

That last little bit inspired by this picture on Deviant art: fowlhunter-dot-deviantart-dot- com/art/They-ve-been-Victorian-d-196506909? and by my head deciding it would be pretty amusing for Watson to write a series of novels with Dr Bell as the protagonist and Doyle his assistant (ala murder rooms).


End file.
